Chapter 11
Eleven
Ryell
“Why did you become an FBI agent?” I ask Lane as he glares at me. He looks as if he doesn’t want to answer the question, but I don’t care. I need to know what makes him tick and only information can tell me.
“Why?” he asks, lip curled in a sneer.
I shrug. “I’m curious about you, Lane. I’m not very tech savvy, so I couldn’t dig up anything on your past.” Lane winces imperceptibly, but I catch it. Hmm. “Is it a secret? I promise I can keep secrets really well.”
“Fuck you, you monster.”
I laugh but just cross my arms over my chest and stare at him.
For the past few days, I’ve been coming down to talk to Lane—more like rub in his face that his body reacted to me and no matter how much he denies it, if I wanted to fuck him right now, he’d let me.
He hasn’t said more than a handful of words, but I have noticed his eyes light up when he sees me, even though he gives me the cold shoulder when I attempt conversation.
Tsking, I run my hands through my hair. “Okay, I’ll make up a story for you.
” I tap my chin as if I’m thinking. “You had a childhood friend that was murdered, and you’ve always wanted to honor them by putting away murderers.
” He gives me a droll look. “No? Alright, how about…you’ve always been overlooked and wanted a job that would make you feel powerful?
Where your word would be law and you could abuse innocent civilians? ”
“I don’t abuse my power or anyone. I’m not a monster like you,” he says through clenched teeth.
“So, tell me.”
Sighing, he crosses his arms over his chest and looks away. I almost think he won’t answer until he says, “I’ve always admired law enforcement and wanted to make a difference. I’m a hard worker and don’t give up until the crime is solved.”
I hum, shooting him a smug smile that I’ve made him answer my question even though he didn’t want to. “Do you feel fulfilled?”
“No. Because I wound up in the arms of a killer. The same one I was tracking.”
“But did you hate being with me, Lane? Or are you just upset that you found out who I really am after you had the fuck of your life?”
I’m surprised when he answers. “Yeah. We had a great time at the bar and in your bed, and I thought I had finally found someone that…understood my needs.”
“What needs are those, Lane?” I ask, leaning forward so I don’t miss a word.
He blows out an unsteady breath but shakes his head. Guess that conversation is closed. That doesn’t matter. He’ll be here until I kill him. I’ll have an answer from him soon enough.
“Tell me about yourself, Lane,” I say.
Grunting, he looks back at me. “Why? Do you always get to know your captives?”
“No. That’s a waste of time when they won’t be here long. But I like you.”
He gapes at me. “You do know how unhinged that sounds, don’t you?”
“I’m a psychopath, Lane. I’m sure everything I say is unhinged.”
“You’re a psychopath?” he asks dryly. “And that doesn’t alarm you? Statistically—”
“Don’t quote serial killer/psychopath statistics at me, Agent. I’ve heard them all. Now, where did you grow up?”
Lane sighs and says, “Here, in California. A small town about three hours south. Super wealthy area with all the old money residents.”
I tick up an eyebrow. “You come from money and chose civil service?”
Surprisingly, his face shutters, and he clenches his jaw. “I don’t come from money.”
Even though he’s showing me that he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, I don’t care. I’m too curious to let the conversation go. “So, you don’t come from old money like your parents? How does that make sense?”
He glares at me through the bars. “I’m adopted.” Then he clamps his mouth shut as if to say he’s done with the topic.
I ask more questions, trying to pry into his life, but Lane refuses to answer.
I didn’t suspect he was adopted. As orphans, we may have more in common than I thought. Though I had a hand in making me and Jacob orphans, so maybe not that much in common.
The hint of hurt and vulnerability in his voice wasn’t lost on me, either. What happened to his birth parents? Did they hurt him? Is he still having an identity crisis as an adopted child, wondering why he was left behind?
While I want to know the answer to all those questions, I’m curious about something else. “If I weren’t ‘The Poser,’” I make air quotes around the stupid nickname, “would you have wanted to get to know me?”
“Yes,” Lane answers immediately. “There was…a connection. Did you feel it?”
I stand and stride to the bars, gripping them tight as I look down at Lane. “I did. What’s to say that we can’t continue on that path?”
Lane’s face hardens, and he stands as well, walking over to the bars and stopping a few inches shy of touching them.
He’s so close that I feel the heat of his chest against the backs of my fingers.
“We can’t have shit, Ryell. You fucking kill people.
You ruin lives, ruin families. I’m fucking disgusted with myself for even believing we could have—”
Reaching through the bars, I grab Lane by the back of the neck and pull him flush against them.
He gasps and struggles for a moment, then stops and glares at me.
“I’ll tell you right now, Lane,” I almost purr.
“I’ll get you to come around. Because there’s something about you that I like.
When I like something, I’ll fucking have it. ”
“I’m not a fucking toy, Ryell. You can’t just have me because you want me. You’re an evil prick.”
I grin widely. “Yeah, my evil prick had you screaming my name.”
He growls, though I can feel him shudder with arousal. My grin morphs into a smug smile.
“You don’t have to admit it, Lane,” I tell him, moving closer to his lips as much as the bars allow, “but I will have you again.”
“Over my dead fucking body, Ryell.”
Twitching an eyebrow up and smiling at him, I say, “Kinky. But I like you alive and squirming under me.”
There’s no hiding the lust in his eyes, no hiding that he wants me, regardless of what he thinks about me.
Leaning forward, I steal a kiss, tasting the uncertainty and arousal on his lips. He jerks back, even though his eyes flash with lust.
“I’ll be back tomorrow, Agent. We’ll talk more.” Then I remove my hand from his neck and walk out, feeling his eyes on me as I go.